


Changeling

by CompletelyDifferent



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Fae & Fairies, Family, Found Family, Gen, World War I, give Amethyst a hug, or vaguely medieval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompletelyDifferent/pseuds/CompletelyDifferent
Summary: There were once two babies: a human and a faerie. One was sweet and cute as could be; the other was weak and wild. The two were switched, exchanged, and left to grow up in the other's world.This is one of their stories.





	Changeling

There was once a sweet human baby.

She was as cute as they came. Chubby and thick-limbed, big, shiny amber eyes, blonde hair like gold. Healthy and strong. Well behaved, too. Rarely fussed or cried, which was a relief for her harried parents.

* * *

There was once a strange Fae baby.

All Fae babies are strange. She was chubby, but tiny too, with purplish skin, faded-grey hair, and sharp teeth that drew blood from her mother’s breasts. Sickly and weak. An obvious troublemaker. Laughed and cried in equal measure, and her wails would have driven her human mother to exhaustion, if she’d had the capacity anymore.

* * *

Spring liked babies.

It was one of her defining characteristics. She was the season of birth. Of fresh green growth, of flowers on trees, of birds and bees, of fawns on unsteady legs taking their first tentative steps.

She loved to take walks through the mortal world, to see the changes She had brought. She’d stroke the leaves of new trees, breathe deep the scent of flowers, cradle newborn bunnies and crocodiles and elephants. She loved the children born into her own Court as well, all the more because they were so rare. Most Fae had come into existence with the world itself, and new ones were few and far in between.

That was the main reason Spring collected humans, especially young maidens. For their fine music and art, of course, but mostly for their babies. She liked to play with them, to tickle their tummies, to hear them scream when she tossed them in the air and when they hit the ground.

Despite all appearances, Spring was not soft. Spring was practical. Not all babies survived: that was a fact of life. Baby birds fell out of trees. Baby bunnies were snatched up in the jaws of hawks. Fawns were taken down by wolves. And if they were not, then the wolves’ own pups would starve.

Survival of the fittest. It was only nature.

Spring looked down at the little Faeling, purple-skinned and sharp-toothed, and knew she was not fit.

Worse, knew she was not _fun_.

She wanted someone better. So she sent her people out to find a replacement.

* * *

The faeries found the sweet human baby, the one given the name Cristal by her parents. Said parents were busy, that day. The father was in the forest, chopping wood for the fire. The mother was doing the washing in the yard. The elder siblings were about, half-working, half-playing. None were minding the baby, now a toddler, walking around on strong, stubby legs. She was safe enough, they were all sure.

Cristal had been taught not to wander off, but she caught sight of something sparkly in the woods, and could not help herself. For once in her young life, she disobeyed. In the bushes she found a person with wings like a butterfly, eyes like dewdrops, and a smile like diamonds. They said they were a Faerie.

The Faerie stole the human toddler. Took her clothes, and put them on the Fae toddler instead. Cast a glamour on the Fae child: purple skin became cream, grey hair became gold, sharp teeth became rounded. A perfect reflection.

They sent the weakling off to the human family on trembling legs and took the strong, human toddler to their Court.

Spring loved her.

* * *

To the human family, Cristal seemed to transform overnight.

Where once she had slept soundly through the nights, now she refused to rest, running around and around their small cottage, yelling and screaming. Whenever they took her into town, she became a bother there as well. Never waiting, talking too loudly, getting her hands into everything, frightening the horses. She became a picky eater, grousing about bread being boring, food being too salty. Yet at the same time, it seemed she’d stick practically anything in her mouth: dirt, feathers, sticks, rocks.

The parents were frustrated but didn’t think much of it. They’d raised three other children. They went through odd phases as they got older. Cristal would grow out of it.

They hoped.

In some ways, she did. Cristal learned from the yellings, the spankings, the cruel looks, to stop the tantrums. To be quiet. To not rock back and forth. To hide her odd snacks. She didn’t always succeed, but she tried, oh she _tried_ , to be a good daughter.

But other oddities began to be noticed.

She got sick, afflicted by strange rashes that no one could explain. She hated the sound of church bells, which were **loud** , much too loud, forcing her to cover her ears. She picked too many fights with the village boys, fights that a little, weakling girl by no rights should win. But win she did, wearing her bruises with pride. She got lashed for misbehaviour and stopped, instead muttering dark things under her breath. The targets of her ire seemed tormented by bad luck: broken legs, sick livestock, plagues of pimples. The town’s children avoided her, and even her own siblings were wary of her. She preferred the company of animals to humans.

Sometimes, people said, she looked _odd_. If you caught her out of the corner of her eyes-- purple skin, sharp teeth, red eyes.

Whispers began. Rumors.

_Witch. Demon-spawn._ **_Changeling._ **

The parents scoffed; said the villagers were superstitious fools jumping at shadows.

But in private, they exchanged worried looks and wondered.

* * *

The girl now called Cristal made it to nearly seven years before something broke.

It was evening, and she was dallying in her chores. The grain in her satchel was heavy, her feet were tired, and she’d stumbled upon her favourite cat in the town square on her way back from the mill. She’d grabbed a stick, and was playing with it, dragging the stick through the dirt, hooting and hollering while the cat tried to catch it.

Someone behind her laughed.

“Playing with your own kind, huh?!” came the cackle from the blacksmith’s apprentice.

“Better than _your_ kind,” the girl snarled back at him. And for a moment, she looked _wrong_ : her eyes slitted and amber, her face furry, her teeth sharp. A cat.

The boy yelped, and the girl laughed, happy to see the fear on his face.

On instinct, the apprentice reached into a pouch at his belt, and brought out a handful of nails. He flung them at the girl.

She yelped, and then screamed as they hit her. They hurt, hurt far more than they should have. It wasn’t just that they dug into her skin; they seemed to burn, searing her. Those rashes she’d gotten, whenever she’d tried to help cook or tend to the fire-- they were here, and they _hurt_.

The boy had acted on fear; now he acted on triumph, pulling out more and more of the nails he’d made, flinging them at the girl, who screamed and tried to bat them away with little success. Suddenly she felt tired, so tired, and her skin was burning. Her eyes filled with tears; she couldn't _see_.

People’s attention was drawn to the commotion. Though Cristal was half-blind, she heard the gasps of shock, of fear.

She heard the blacksmith’s apprentice shout, “Demon!”

She heard others take up the cry.

The nails had stopped coming, and her eyes became clear enough to see. All around her, people were staring; farmers, bakers, the miller, the midwife, children and elderly alike. The cat at her side had its back arched, claws out, and was hissing at all of them.

Cristal didn’t ask, didn’t wait. She just picked up her bag of grain and _ran_.

She ran and ran and ran until she reached her home. She flung open the door and rushed in, shaking for breath. Her mother heard her panic, and began to say, “What is wrong? You did not get into a fight again, did you--?”

But then she turned, and the mother stopped.

Cristal saw the shock on her face. The fear.

“Maman?”

The woman held her hands to her breast, and asked in a trembling voice, “What are you?”

It was only then the girl looked down, and was met with an unfamiliar body. Her creamy skin was gone, replaced with a deep purple, as though her whole body was a bruise. Her arm seemed at the same time too chubby and too short. She dropped her satchel and raised her hand. At each finger was a long, wicked claw.

“What has happened to me?” she cried. “Maman? _What has happened?!_ ”

“I am not your maman!”

By then the rest of the family was there, having heard the commotion-- the girl spun around, and saw the same horror on all their faces. Her Papa’s expression was hard. One of her sisters was shaking her head. One of her brothers was reaching for his knife. Her last brother, who was just two years older, was the only one to look sad. There were tears in his eyes when he said, “Run. Run, before they catch you!”

* * *

So the girl ran again, this time away from home, into the forest.

As she ran, she tripped and fell. She got up, but this time, stayed on four legs. It felt easier like this. She imagined herself as her favourite black cat, light and lithe on her feet.

She could hear people behind her. A low, angry murmur, the occasional yell rising above it all, and she could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

It was dark. It was dark, but somehow she could see.

Far scarier than the darkness were the lights. Torches, flames, casting strange shadows through the trees.

She was tired. Her feet hurt. They were catching up to her. She smelled iron. Weapons.

Close. So close now.

But somehow, they didn’t catch her. Every time a hunter got close, something stopped them. A stray root where they hadn’t seen one. A low-hanging branch throwing them off their horse. An unexpected wind blowing out their torch, leaving them blind.

And the girl ran on.

* * *

In the darkness, the girl found a cave.

It smelled of stone, of water, of must, of blood, of something animalistic. Something in the back of her mind recognised that scent-- wolf.

She went into the cave anyway. Wolves, she thought, she could deal with. It was the humans-- her fellow villagers, her family-- who scared her now. She just wanted to hide away in the hole and be safe. Maybe the wolves would protect her.

But the cave was empty. There were signs that it had been a den once, but the wolf pack had clearly moved on.

The girl curled up, too tired to keep running. She closed her eyes and listened, hearing the stamp of boots, the baying of horses and barking of dogs, the crackle of fire, and the shouts, the shouts. “ _Find the demon! Slay her! Cast her away!_ ”

And then a new sound. Perhaps one could call it a song, except it was too discordant to be considered music. It sounded like-- like the burning of the summer sun, like the rush of the autumn rain, like the chill of the winter wind. It started quiet, then grew louder and louder and louder--

Through shut eyelids, the girl saw light: yellow and blue and white…

And then she saw and heard nothing as she fell into a deep, deep slumber.

When the human hunters eventually searched the cave, there was nothing but rock and stone inside.

* * *

Time passed, and the magic wore off.

The girl woke up, slowly, unsteadily. Her whole body was stiff, stiff. Her eyes felt glued shut. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and took immense effort to stretch.

Finally, she managed to sit up. She blinked. Daylight streamed through the cave. All signs of the humans were gone, as was the smell of wolf.

She clenched her hand, her sharp nails digging into her palm. Where was she to go now?

Her stomach gurgled. She was hungry. She picked up some dried leaves from the cave floor, and shoved them into her mouth. Swallowed. That helped a bit. She rocked back and forth, as she did when she was thinking.

She couldn’t stay there. What if the hunters returned?

Stumbling out into the sunlight, she found the forest looked different. She hadn’t been able to pay much attention, in the darkness, with the running, but she could have sworn the trees were in different positions. She wasn’t entirely sure which direction lead to the place she had called home. She’d been running to the West, she thought, so after a moment’s consideration, decided to continue in that direction.

Following the path of the sun, it wasn’t long-- an hour, perhaps-- before she reached the forest's edge. She had come to the flat stretch of land, and she stared out at it, perplexed.

It looked like it should have been a field, of grass or crops. Instead, it was filled with nothing but churned mud. It was hard to tell, but it looked like someone had dug long, snaking channels into the earth, piling it into mounds. The girl had seen something like that at a nearby river which sometimes flooded, except these channels were topped with sharp, pointed wire, more of it and more thinly drawn than she had ever seen.

Why would anyone do such a thing?

She lurked in the bushes, getting as close as she could, but still, she could not understand. Finally, overcome with curiosity, she stepped out to investigate.

_BANG!_

The girl leapt into the air, so startled she was by the noise. But it didn’t stop-- _BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_

The sound blocked everything else, the air suddenly filled with the smell of smoke and fire, and things were flying, flying everywhere. Something grazed the girl in the cheek, and it burned, **_seared_**.

She heard people yelling, and she moved on pure instinct, leaping into the nearest channel, hands to her cheek, eyes threatening tears again.

She looked up, and found herself surrounded by strange men. They were pointing bizarre metal sticks at her.

“Don’t hurt me!” she cried, throwing up her hands. “Please!”

(If they did, if they tried, she wouldn’t go down easy, she’d already decided. She’d see what her new claws could do.)

But the men didn’t try to hurt her. They didn’t even look angry. They were talking-- some yelling, some muttering, but mostly, they just seemed confused.

The girl was confused too. Why were they not hurting her? She glanced down at herself, and saw she’d changed back. Her ugly purple skin returned to its proper cream and her nails were short and neatly filed. She was even wearing her best Sunday dress, which made no sense; she had not been before.

She was confused, too, by the men’s speech. It sounded like French, but all wrong. The words, the grammar, the accents.

One man crouched down low, spoke slowly and deliberately. “ _Je suis Pierre,_ ” he said, pointing at his chest, and strange language or not, the girl understood. “ _Tu t’appelles comment_ _?_ ”

The girl didn’t answer, so the man and his fellows tried again and again, eventually resorting to just pointing at her, and repeating, “ _Prénom? Prénom?_ ”

The girl understood this, at least. She simply did not know how to answer. As far as she could remember, she’d always been called Cristal. But then her maman had yelled at her, said she was not her daughter, and her family had chased her out of the house, hunted her and--

\-- no. She didn’t want to be Cristal.

Not anymore.

* * *

The nameless girl was still scared. 

She had no idea where she was. The loud bangs continued for some time, then stopped, aside from the occasional one that would go off with no warning. They came from the strange sticks many of the men carried, which shot out fire and metal. Weapons, clearly.

The girl did not like them. Not because they were weapons-- she quite liked weapons, all told-- but because if she touched them, they burned her hand.

The men were loud, and spoke strangely, and dressed oddly, but they were kind to her. They all lived underground, in dark, damp rooms, but they found her a bed that was reasonably dry and bundled up. Someone came to touch her cheek; she hissed at him, and he backed away. He came back later, hands up, holding a bandage, and gestured that he just wanted to help heal her blistered hands and face. She let him. Another man brought her a bowl filled with a soup. It was plain and runny, but it was hot, and she ate it gratefully.

A little later, another man, his face all sooty, gestured for her to hold open her palm. After a little hesitation, she did. He put a brown square on it. He mimed eating it.

The girl blinked. She liked dirt-- always had-- but a grown up had never told her to eat it. She was tempted not to, just to be contrary.

But she did, and it was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

“ _Chocolat_ ,” the man said.

“Chocolat,” the girl repeated, and he grinned at her.

That night she curled up in a bunk dug into an underground trench, head on chocolat-man’s lap, and slept soundly.

* * *

The tale of the Mystery Girl of the Trenches spread like wildfire. First through the French troops, then into the French press, and then through the newspapers of all the allied nations. Strange child appears out of nowhere in No Man’s Land. Just barely survived by ducking into a nearby trench. Doesn’t seem to speak a word of proper, modern French, but sweet as can be, regardless. Taken in by a friendly division. It was a feel good story, during a war in which there were very few to go around.

Everyone knew the front lines of the Great War was no place for such a young child. Attempts were made to bring her somewhere safer, but none of them succeeded. Trucks would break down. Agents coming to collect the girl would get lost or end up in the wrong place. Sometimes people looking for her suddenly flat out forgot what it was they were doing. Over time, the soldiers grew more and more resistant to the idea of her leaving, of her being taken away.  She was fun to be around, playful, a single bright spot in their existence of muck and poor food and the constant threat of death. They didn’t want to let go of her.

This suited the girl perfectly. She didn’t want to let go of them, either.

* * *

Not everyone could be so easily waylaid.

After some months, three strangers appeared in the girl’s trench. They were all women, which was what made them stand out. There weren’t many women in this war. And the few women the girl had seen around here wore skirts, but these ones wore pants, like the men. One of them was black, as well. The only black people she’d ever seen before were the ‘Harlem Hellfighters,’ but she had never seen this lady among them, which made her a source of immediate curiosity.

But there was something else about them, too. When she caught sight of them out of the corner of her eye, their forms seemed to flicker.

They noticed the girl right away. Strode towards her. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise up.

They had come to take her away. The girl knew it. She also knew that no one would let them. Her friends, the soldiers, would stop them.

But they didn’t. It was like they didn’t even notice the women.

“Pierre! Pierre!” the girl called, but her friend just stared past her, smiling blankly into empty air.

The girl backed away.

“Do not be afraid,” said one woman, the really tall one with big, curly hair. That made the girl stop. She spoke the right language. French. _Her_ French.

“How did you get here?” asked next woman, the thin one, in the same French.

“Why should I tell you?” the girl demanded, crossing her arms.

“Because we can’t have you hurting anyone,” said the black woman, while at the same time, the big one said, “Because we’re here to help you.”

The girl narrowed her eyes.

The thin woman came and asked, “Do you know what you are?”

“What kinda question is that?” said the girl.

The three women exchanged looks.

“You are not human,” said the black one.

_Yes I am_ , the girl wanted to say, but the words stuck on her tongue. She was fairly certain that would be a lie.

The thin woman waved a hand. It felt like a cold bucket of water had been dumped on her head. When she looked, back was her horrible, demonic appearance. She flinched, waiting for the screams, the attacks-- but none came.

The soldiers were not looking at her. They were not looking anywhere. They were staring into space, wearing odd, vacant smiles, just like Pierre. She ran to the nearest man-- the one who had given her chocolat-- and shook him, but he didn’t even seem to notice.

“What did you do to them?” the girl demanded, terrified.

“They are not hurt,” the big one promised.

“We will let them go,” the thin one assured.

“We just need to talk,” the black one said.

And then they changed.

The big one, who said to call her Rose, wore a dress of white. Her hair was not hair at all, but a cascade of flower petals that seemed to blow in an unfelt breeze. The thin one, who said to call her Pearl, had skin so white it looked like freshly fallen snow, and eyes misty grey all the way through. The black one, who said to call her Garnet, had three eyes, each a different color, and lightning danced around her fingers.

They did not ask the girl her name.

She thought she should be scared of them, and yet, she was not.

They explained things to her. They said she was not wrong, demonic, or evil. They said she was Fae, just like them. They asked where she had come from, for, “There are not many Fae left on this plane.”

So the girl told her story, and they listened, solemn and serious. They got more serious still when she described the strange light, the song, the sleep. They said it was a powerful curse. They said she had been lucky that it had not hurt her too badly. That in a way, it had protected her. That it had merely put her in a stasis for many hundreds and hundreds of years.

This made a lot of sense to the girl and explained so much. Why people spoke different, dressed different, and could make such strange things from metal.  In a way, it felt like she had already knew.

The three women said they could help her. Teach her. Keep her safe.

“It’s dangerous for you here,” said Rose, tears pouring down her face. She wiped them off with a hand, and pressed it to the girl’s shoulder. She was covered in rashes, all over; they were impossible to avoid in a place so oozing with metal. But at the damp touch, all those sores faded away.

The girl knew in her heart of hearts they were telling the truth. “But… that means I would have to leave them.”

The three Fae followed her gaze as she looked around at the men who had taken her in.

“You truly care for them, I see,” Garnet said.

“Yes,” said the girl.

“You wouldn’t want them hurt, would you?” Pearl said.

“No,” said the girl.

“And do you want to help others like them? The good humans?” Rose said.

The girl thought this over. The memory of the hunters was still fresh in the mind. But fresher still were the strangers’ smiles, their warm soup, their chocolat. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

All three of the Fae smiled.

“They will be safer without you here,” said Pearl.

“But we will not leave them without thanks,” said Rose.

“We will begin teaching you now,” said Garnet.

* * *

The girl left, leaving only vague memories of her behind.

The soldiers missed her, but they all agreed it was for the best she’d left. The front was no place for a child. They couldn’t have borne it, if she’d been killed. Looking back, they weren’t entirely sure why they’d allowed her to stick around so long.

She’d been an odd kid, anyway.

Though the girl was gone, she and the other Fae had left a mark, invisible as it was. The soldiers had cared for her, and that deserved something in exchange. Each Fae had left a gift, a charm. From Garnet: bunks that were always warm. From Pearl: boots and socks that stayed dry, feet that never became diseased.  From Rose: fresh air, without a hint of poison.

From the girl: a seemingly endless supply of chocolate.

* * *

The journey the Fae took the girl on was long, but it was the most exciting time of her life.

It was a relief to leave behind the trenches, even if it meant saying goodbye to her friends. The world beyond them was beautiful, and filled with such excitement and novelty. Radios! Planes! Zippers! Ice-cream!

She saw the ocean for the first time, and it was amazing, how it stretched on for ever and ever and ever.

It was a good thing she liked it, because it took a full month to cross it, even with Pearl summoning a wind to fill their sails. The girl was never bored, however. She spent her time learning all manner of things. About modern English and French, and how to speak it. About where she had come from. About the Fae and their laws. About magic and conjurings and glamor.

She was a shapechanger, it turned out. It came to her naturally. She liked to jump through the waves as a dolphin, fly through the air like a bird.

Garnet, Pearl and Rose were never scared of her. They never flinched away. They didn’t get mad if she screamed, never told her to stop rocking back and forth, or that she couldn’t eat driftwood. They said she was perfect just the way she was.

* * *

They took her to a cave in a land called America. This was good: the girl liked caves. From the outside, it didn’t look strange at all. But when she stepped inside, the world seemed to shift, and it was a million times better than the tiny dens that had littered the landscape in her old home in France.

There were waterfalls that flowed upwards. Pools of bubbling lava. Soft, pink clouds. A giant, beating heart, pulsating with light. And from the walls jutted all sorts of bright crystals in all sorts of colors.

The girl was drawn to them, partly for their sparkle, partly because they reminded her of her old name. Not all the time she’d spent with maman and papa and her brothers and sister had been bad.

“What’s this?” she said, pointing to bright red rock.

“Garnet,” said Garnet, smiling.

“And this?” she said, pointing at a stone of soft pink.

“Rose Quartz,” said Rose.

She frowned at them. “Are you named after the rocks?”

Rose said no; she was named after the flower. And Pearl said, _technically_ , her name didn’t come from a rock at all, but rather a hard, shiny object produced by an animal called an oyster.

“I am,” said Garnet. “I picked it myself. To fit in with the others.”

The girl liked this. She wanted to fit in too. She wanted to belong.

She looked at her dark, purple skin. There was a rock in the wall, almost the exact same color.

“What’s that called?” she said, and Garnet smiled wider at her.

“Amethyst.”

* * *

Nearly a hundred years later, Amethyst held a baby in her arms, a tiny boy who chewed absently on one of her fingers.

She felt sick in her stomach, sick with grief, and her eyes were sore from tears she refused to shed, and she was tired, just tired, and angry.

But not at him. Not at Steven.

It had been a long, long time since she’d been a sister. Since she’d had siblings.

She still remembered them. Or little things about them. A sister braiding her hair. A brother teaching her how to carve wood. Minding the sheep with another brother, as he sung songs to pass the time.

Technically, they’d never really been hers. Not by blood, and if there had been a bond, it had long since been severed.

But there had been good parts, there. Amethyst hoped she could be as good as they had once been. She hoped she could be _better._   

She would make sure Steven belonged too.


End file.
